


Sins as Scarlet

by Argyle



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-19
Updated: 2004-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Alan cannot resist Dorian's temptation.





	Sins as Scarlet

_To [Campbell], as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life._ \--  The Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter XIV

It seemed that the curtain of the world was finally being drawn open as a hansom cab, though it was barely visible in the still of the night, dove through the thick fog. The horses’ hooves clattered against the cobbled street, damp with the light rain that had fallen earlier in the evening, the sound hollowly catching against the stone and glass of buildings and forgotten alleyways as the cab passed by. Heavy with the scent of fallen leaves and deterioration, the air clung to the spokes of the wheels, not wishing to give up a chance to move forward.

Alan Campbell, seated within, slid himself over the soft leather cushioning and leaned into the side wall. He swallowed, trembling slightly, and pressed a smooth cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into the dim street beyond. It had been a nearly month since he had last passed this way, though through the haze of his thoughts he mused that it may have been years.

The cab came to an abrupt stop and Alan reeled forward, unsteadily bracing himself against the opposite seat. As he shook himself and searched out the window in attempt to gauge his whereabouts, he realized that the cab had indeed come to its destination: the home of Dorian Gray. There was a knock on the door as Alan searched by his feet for his bag. He stepped out, taking a deep breath.

“Have a pleasant ride, sir?” the driver leered at him and huddled deeply into the greasy folds of his black cloak as though attempting to ward off the bite of the fog.

Alan frowned, reaching into his pocket. “Thank you,” he nodded slightly, dropping coins into the driver’s upturned palm. As the cab rattled away again, he stepped forward, gripping his bag tightly. Standing on the stone of the doorstep, he hesitated for a moment, wondering whether Dorian would be in. Although it was nearly midnight, he knew that it made little difference; the other man had a great propensity for late-night diversions. Alan dashed a hand across his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had formed despite the windswept chill of the evening. He then tilted his head, listening intently to the sound of music wafting out from within. As the soothing notes began to calm his mind, he closed his eyes, envisioning the slender fingers dancing across the keys, just as ivory. Shaking himself and swallowing roughly, he knocked.

There was a shuffling from behind as the latch was lifted and the door gently swung open. Alan smiled, “Good evening, Francis. Is Mr. Gray at home this evening?”

“Yes, of course, sir,” the valet nodded, motioning Alan inside. “I shall tell him that you are here.”

Alan gazed through the dim corridor, breathing in deeply as he heard the piano suddenly stop. As the parlor door opened, the light from within diffused lazily into the thick gloom that hung against the walls. A darkly-clad figure emerged, striding toward him with an easy step.

“Alan! I had not expected to see you until Tuesday week,” Dorian grasped his hand tightly. Alan shivered despite himself at Dorian’s icy touch. His face was shrouded in shadow, dusky forms smoothed against the delicate slant of his cheekbones, and the faint glow escaping from the other room twined through his hair reverently. “You must tell me of your trip. Here, come in,” he nodded as he placed an attentive grip on Alan’s arm and led him into the parlor.

As he settled into the soft red leather of a high-backed armchair, Alan’s eyes grazed over his surroundings. The curtains, drawn tightly before the height of the windows, gently swayed against the pull of the air caused by the bursting of the fire beside him. He felt his cheeks flush as the warmth of it hit him and he cautiously raised his eyes to Dorian. He looked to the smooth hem of his jacket, the pale hands held lightly against his hips in what seemed to be somber resolve, the glittering buttons aligned over his chest, the slant of his collar that appeared at once to have the same shade as the pearl of his cheek, and finally lingering on those knowing eyes, rung within the clearest hue.

Dorian smiled, tilting his head almost imperceptibly. “Alan?” he stepped forward. “Why have you left the conference early? You were most adamant upon leaving that three weeks couldn’t possibly be enough for the amount of research and information that was being presented.”

“I’ve not been myself these last days, I’m afraid.” He dropped his gaze to the darkly tiled floor. “The conference...”

“What?”

“I was unable to concentrate. My nerves...” he paused once more. “I was ill.”

“Oh, Alan,” Dorian shook his head, crossing shortly to Alan. He took his hand in his own, gently pressing it. “I am sorry for that. Your work is so important to you -- I do hate to see it neglected as such.”

“Yes,” Alan agreed, his voice faint and his gaze remaining on Dorian’s grasp.

A smile playing lightly across the scarlet bow of his mouth, Dorian walked to a desk that stood to the side of the window. He glanced to Alan and, setting aside a teacup, began again, “Well, I am glad that you’ve returned safely, Alan.” His brow furrowed for a moment as he weighed his words. “I couldn’t bear to loose you.”

Alan shivered then at the sound of Dorian’s voice, which rang as icy waters running in a swift current over his ears. He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, feeling his throat catch tightly against itself. Instead, he watched as Dorian raised the teapot lightly and poured, the sterling of its surface glinting in the radiance of the open hearth. Dorian looked back to Alan for a moment, smiling as he dropped a small cube of sugar into the cup and set a spoon to the side of the saucer. Alan nodded weakly as he took the cup from Dorian’s outstretched hand, the thin china sounding crisply with the shaking of his grasp. He sighed gently as he took a sip, the thin steam rising from the tea tickling against his nose.

Dorian smirked, sitting solidly onto the piano bench. He reached quickly into his breast pocket, removing a golden cigarette case. Flipping it open and placing one between the curves of his lips, he lit it with a small spark and rested his eyes on Alan. “Alan,” he murmured. “I missed you, dear boy.”

Alan shifted against the leather cushion of his seat and shut his eyes, swallowing another sip of the tea. He shuddered as he felt the warmth of the drink tracing a path through his insides and dashed a hand across his brow. “Dorian, I...”

“What?” Dorian drew on his cigarette, the burning ember of the end flashing lightly against the tips of his fingers. With a swift turn of his wrist and a wave of long fingers, he pulled out the arcing red silk of his tie, letting it fall loosely about his neck, and unbuttoned the firm fabric of his collar. He swung his slender legs around on the bench and lightly ran his fingers over the ivory of the keys. Tendrils of smoke laced through the golden curls of his hair and rose upward, dispersing. Dorian glanced back over his shoulder, looking to Alan with a sideways grin.

“I missed you,” Alan breathed quietly. As the cup shook in his hands, thin drips of tea bounded over the rim and collected in the saucer. He leaned forward and set it onto the warm stones of the hearth with a rough movement.

Dorian nodded softly as he began to move his slim hands across the piano, pressing gently on the keys, at once sparking notes through the warmth of the air. Alan ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips as he settled further into the chair, uncrossing his legs and setting his feet firmly to the floor. It was Chopin, a nocturne he had heard a hundred times before, though not from the hands of Dorian. The man seemed to add a dark passion to the piece, the sound weaving around him as a tapestry and softly catching in Alan’s ears. He closed his eyes with a sigh, letting the wave after wave of sound nip against his toes, eventually washing over him.

A sense of calm passed through Alan’s blood as the last notes rung out and Dorian was silent, still bent toward the piano’s breadth. With another flick of his wrist, Dorian then stubbed away the remaining ashes of his cigarette, blue smoke writhing through his fingers. Standing with a swift agility, he crossed back to Alan, a look of quiet stamped across his features. Alan shook himself, looking into the other man’s pale eyes, and raised himself unevenly from the warmth of his seat.

“I suppose I should be off,” Alan began, running a hand roughly through the dark mass of this hair. “The evening grows late -- I am sorry to have kept you so long, Dorian.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Dorian’s face as he shook his head. “Nonsense, Alan.” He placed a hand on Alan’s shoulder, pursing his lips.

“I...” Alan faltered, feeling his weight give slightly against Dorian’s touch. He then backed away softly, breaking their gaze, and made a slight movement toward the door.

“Alan, please,” Dorian smiled, his voice hung with the sweet chiming of bells. “Don’t go.”

Turing back slowly, Alan raised his gaze to Dorian’s. He breathed in deeply as he saw again the starry grace that leapt with such passion and promise from behind ashen lashes. Dorian smiled, his lips parting slightly, and with a swift movement took Alan’s hand in his own. He squeezed it gently, holding it still for a moment and then raising it to his chest. Alan felt the steady beating of the other’s heart and a tremor passed through his thin frame as his hand was softly guided between the pearl buttons of Dorian’s shirt to touch the smooth skin beneath, the flesh at Dorian’s nipples setting firmly against his fingertips.

There seemed to be a quiet sadness held against the depths of Dorian’s gaze as he languidly reached his free hand to Alan and ran his fingers over the soft curve of his jaw. Alan exhaled as he felt Dorian pull him closer, his hand still softly lingering against his cheek.

“You’ve only just arrived, my dear Alan,” Dorian sighed against his lips. The breath between them was then bridged as Dorian kissed him, delicately at first, soon more roughly as Alan entwined his arms around the other’s back. Alan tasted sweet wine and rose petals on Dorian’s tongue as it passed over his own and his ears were only met by the pounding of his own heart and the broken laughter of the fire as they pressed together. He felt himself tumbling away from reach, away from view to all but one.

Alan moaned softly as they finally pulled apart. Tears began welling in his eyes and he blinked, the yellow light refracting against his lashes as the soft drops dispersed. “Your face, Dorian,” he swallowed, his voice cracking under the weight of a sob. “It is like murder... so smooth.” He set his head against Dorian’s shoulder, his weary form shaking quietly. “My God, Dorian.”

His hand settling under Alan’s chin, Dorian lightly grazed the pad of his thumb under each of Alan’s eyes, a smile passing at once over his lips. “Hush,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen you look so tired. No, you mustn’t speak. Your recent studies seem to have been quite draining on you.” He ran the tips of his fingers, nails cool as frosted autumn glass, across Alan’s cheek.

His brow furrowing slightly at the sound of these words, Alan nodded as Dorian, grasping his hand once more, led him into the shadows of the hallway. There was perhaps some spark nestled deep within him that knew that there was little solace to be had as the whispers of the night drew a curtain over his thoughts, though he could not find the strength to have it be otherwise. As the light of the parlor grew distant behind them, he smiled.


End file.
